The Corpse Wore Red

by Pat Herbert

  Why had Starveling whined and howled like that? After all, he wasn’t to know who was in the grave. What had upset him? Dogs were supposed to be psychic, weren’t they? She was sure someone had once told her that. Beattie loved supernatural mysteries just as much as she loved murders.

  It was beginning to dawn on her that Alice Troy was a restless spirit. Just like the ones she read about in stories.

  17th March 1957: Scarborough

  “You look like the cat that’s got the cream, Ali.”

  “You could say that.” Alice Troy was smirking as she set out the coffee cups. Alice and May were on duty bright and early at the Cumberland Hotel to ensure that the delegates got their dose of caffeine before the day’s agenda got under way. Pete Farrell, their boss, was nowhere to be seen.

  “So, tell me. Why are you grinning like a Cheshire cat?” May asked.

  “Mind your own. Where’s that Pete got to? I bet he had a bit on the side last night. Or got drunk or something.”

  “A bit on the side, eh? I thought he had his eye on you,” said May archly.

  “Well, he was out of luck. I was otherwise engaged.”

  “You mean that dishy bloke you’ve been ogling for the past two days?”

  “I said mind your own.”

  “All right, Miss High-and-Mighty. See if I care,” said May with a sniff. “You may have done all right, but there was this bloke who tried to get off with me last night. You’re not the only one who’s having fun, and he was much better-looking than your Mr Business Suit, so there.”

  Alice stared at her. She was in the act of pouring milk into a jug and managed to spill some onto the pristine white table cloth. How come some bloke had been flirting with her? Still, I suppose some might find her attractive, she thought, though she was sure he wasn’t as handsome as she made out. Anyway, she hadn’t seen any other good-looking men about the place, so she was convinced that May was making it up.

  “All right, then. Who is this vision of beauty? I never saw him,” said Alice.

  “He works here. In the kitchens. Does a bit of this and a bit of that – or so he said. Even done a bit of cooking for the conference. His name’s Danny.”

  “Danny? Where’d you meet him?”

  “He was hanging round by the dustbins last night when I took the rubbish out. He said hello, and then we got talking a bit.”

  “He liked you, did he?”

  May drew herself up to her full height. She was much taller than Alice, one of the few advantages, as she saw it, that she had over her. “You sound sceptical,” she said.

  “Do I? No, I mean, I – that is …” Alice was at a loss.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I know I’m not the prettiest portrait in the gallery,” said May, knowing only too well what Alice was trying to say. “But men do, on occasion, talk to me. Some even seem to like me. Danny, f’instance.”

  “Did he – did you ….?”

  “If you’re asking if we did anything like that – no, ’course not. What do you think I am?”

  Alice shrugged. “Sorry, no offence meant. You’re touchy, aren’t you?”

  “You should know me better than that, by now.”

  “I had a good time with Howie, anyway,” said Alice, determined to keep the upper hand. Howard Drake was very handsome and a proper businessman. Not some odd jobber hanging around dustbins all night.

  “Howie? That his name, then?”

  “Yes. He’s ever so well off. Got a sports car and everything.” Alice was preening now.

  “So he tells you. Probably told you he weren’t married, neither.”

  “Well, he did, actually. Why? Do you think he was lying?”

  “You naïve or what?,” said May. “All these business types tell the girls that when they’re let off the leash. They get their fun, don’t you worry. I hope you didn’t do anything silly, Ali. You know you get carried away sometimes.”

  Alice, who had done something very silly that night, said nothing.

  May, happy in the knowledge she had been able to keep amorous Danny at arm’s length, gave her a superior look. “You have, haven’t you? You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

  “N-no, of course I didn’t. I’m no pushover.”

  “Well, I hope, for your sake, you didn’t.”

  There was a small trickle of dark suits entering the conference room now, most of them looking like the morning after the night before. Alice began to pour the coffee with a shaky hand, while May watched her with concern.

  25th January 1958: Wandsworth

  Bernard sighed as he listened to his friend. Robbie hadn’t stopped talking about Celia Pargeter for the last half hour. She was a subject endlessly fascinating to him. To Bernard, his continued praising of her virtues was becoming boring. Robbie, however, had yet to notice the stifled yawns and the glassy eyes.

  “She’s so independent, too, Bernie. Drives everywhere in her little Morris Minor. Calls it Mabel. I think that’s really sweet, don’t you?”

  “Barmy, if you ask me,” said Bernard.

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. “Thought you’d agree, old boy. So unusual, isn’t she? I can’t get over how lucky I am that she likes me. I’m taking her to the pictures tomorrow night.”

  “How nice,” said Bernard, drumming his fingers on the table top. They were seated in the Feathers pub, having a midday drink. Robbie was enjoying his whisky, while Bernard was barely interested in his sweet sherry. Listening to his friend drone on and on, he wanted nothing more than to escape to the vicarage and Mrs Harper’s shepherd pie.

  “Yes, and she’s very intelligent, too. Knows about everything– ”

  “Well, she would do, wouldn’t she?” said Bernard sarcastically.

  “I mean – what’s the matter?” Robbie, for the first time, realised his friend was less than enthusiastic about Celia. This he couldn’t understand, but put it down to plain old jealousy. He remembered she had been rather fond of Bernard at first, preferring him, in fact, to himself. Saving her from violent death had swung it in his favour. Now Bernard’s nose had obviously been put out of joint.

  “Oh, nothing Robbie. I’m happy for you – really. Except, there are other things we could talk about, you know.”

  “I apologise for boring you,” said Robbie crossly. He finished his whisky and stood up. “Want another?”

  “I’ve not touched this one yet, thanks. Look, I really wanted to talk to you about something else, something important.” Bernard emphasised the last word, making it clear that he thought Celia Pargeter wasn’t.

  Robbie sat down again, cradling his empty glass. “Oh God, Bernie, I’m the one who’s sorry. What must you think of me? I’ll just get a refill and then you can tell me. All right?”

  Bernard smiled. “Thanks, Robbie. That would be good.” He watched him as he went to the bar, wondering how long he would be besotted with this woman. There was something shallow about her. She was beautiful, of course, and his friend could never resist a pretty face, could never see beyond the outward show. Eventually he would see her for what she was: a recent divorcee out for a good time and Robbie just one among many men who would have the doubtful pleasure of escorting her here, there and everywhere and paying for the privilege, he was sure. In the end she would tire of him and bid him farewell, fondly or otherwise, and head for pastures new. That time couldn’t come soon enough for Bernard, although he didn’t want his friend to be hurt.

  When Robbie had his fresh drink, Bernard told him about Flora Drake’s visit.

  “Ah, poor wee lassie,” said Robbie, lapsing into his native brogue as he thought of the pretty wife of the condemned Howard Drake.

  “Yes, she is a ‘poor wee lassie’ as you so aptly put it,” smiled Bernard. “She came to me to help prove her husband’s innocence. She says there’s no one else she can turn to.”

  “That’s a tough one, Bernie old boy. It’s an open and shut case, though, isn’t it? The girl was threatening to break up his marriage so he had to
get rid of her. There weren’t any other suspects, were there?”

  “It’s all circumstantial, Robbie. I’ve known the Drakes for ages. I’m sure he’s not capable of murder.”

  “You never can tell. When people are boxed into a corner, they sometimes have to resort to extreme measures. I mean, he’s had his fun, now he’s got to pay for it. It’s a familiar story.”

  “But can we believe everything we read in the papers? All right, the prosecution is able to prove he had a strong motive. But I don’t believe he would have resorted to murder.”

  “Well, maybe not. But I can’t see what help you can be, Bernie.”

  “Neither do I, Robbie. Neither do I.”

  25th- 27th January 1958: Lewisham

  Beattie decided to take Starveling for another walk through Ladywell cemetery. The weather wasn’t improving; if anything, it was colder and wetter than when she had walked him there on the previous two days. She still didn’t feel up to a longer walk to the park, and she wanted to see if his reaction would be the same when they got to Alice Troy’s grave again.

  They entered the gates as a gale blew her hat off and ruffled the mutt’s curly hair. He shivered slightly, despite the warm woolly coat Beattie had put on him. They walked slowly past the graves just like before; Starveling pulled on his lead, wanting to run free, but otherwise he was calm. She stopped by several graves to see what would happen, but there was no reaction from the dog. He just sat down beside her and waited patiently, probably wondering what she was looking at.

  Finally, they approached Alice’s grave. When they were within a few yards of it, she could feel the tension in the little dog build. She drew him nearer, but he tried to pull away. She forced him to approach the graveside, and then the howling started. There was no doubt now. She was convinced that the restless spirit of Alice Troy was there, waiting to be discovered – waiting to be helped.

  ***

  Later that day, Beattie began searching through her address book. She had attended many séances in her time, and consulted clairvoyants on all sorts of matters. When her first child died of meningitis, aged only three, for example, and when her husband died suddenly of a heart attack in his late-forties. The comfort she received from these consultations had been invaluable at the time, and she never doubted for a minute that what she was told was the gospel truth. It had to be.

  When she had been at her lowest ebb, she had tried the church first of all and consulted her local vicar. When she had asked him why God had seen fit to take her little boy, he hadn’t been able to give her a satisfactory explanation, not one that satisfied her, anyway. It was all very well to say that people were put on Earth to suffer, but not little children, surely? So she had sought another answer. The spirit world didn’t frighten her at all. Spirits were what was left after people weren’t people anymore, and the mediums were the instruments through which she could contact them.

  Alice Troy needed her help; she needed someone’s help, anyway. Now, who would be the best person to ask? There was that sweet woman in Maida Vale with all those cats. She had put her in touch with an old friend who had passed over without her knowledge two years ago. Beattie pondered for a moment, then decided. No, not her. This wasn’t quite the right job for someone like her.

  She continued turning the pages. There was that man, Henry. ‘Just Henry’, he called himself. She had thought him rather a cold fish, but he knew his stuff all right. However, he tended to talk down to her, as if she was a naughty child. No, she thought, definitely not him. She flicked back to the beginning of the book. It seemed sensible to be methodical and start with the ‘A’s’. There, on the first page, was the name she had been trying to think of, Anbolin Amery-Judge. She was a nice old girl. Beattie knew at once that she was the right person to consult.

  Losing no time, she got out her best Basildon Bond writing pad and started to write a letter to her. Beattie remembered Anbolin well; she had made a deep impression on her. She had gone to see her about her recently deceased cat, wanting to make sure she had gone to pussy heaven and all was well. It turned out Anbolin loved cats too, and had one of her own. She had told her that her pet was happy now and free of pain, and recommended she replace him as quickly as possible. Beattie had intended to go to the cat rescue centre, but before she could get around to it, a neighbour who was moving abroad had asked her if she would take on her little dog as she couldn’t take him with her. It was either that or she would have to have him put down. So Starveling was now her bosom companion.

  ***

  Anbolin received Beattie’s letter, redirected from her Holloway home, just two days after it was sent. She remembered at once the woman who had been broken-hearted over the death of her pet cat. That had been about two years ago, if memory served. She had warmed to her straightaway. She couldn’t honestly say she had been able to contact the spirit of the animal, but she had given her comfort, nevertheless, and that was the main thing. She blinked back a tear when she thought of her own dear moggy who had died at the beginning of the previous year. She had often thought about getting another one, but kept putting it off. Besides, she had Bernard’s cat to fuss over, and Beelzebub was one of the main reasons why she had stayed at the vicarage for so long. That, and Nancy Harper’s cooking, of course.

  After reading the letter, she sought out Bernard at once. As usual, she found him in his study. He was seated at his desk, trying to write the sermon for the following Sunday’s services. Not a wordsmith by nature or inclination, this task never came easily to him and he was relieved by her interruption.

  “Here, vicar,” she said without preamble. “What d’you make of this?” She handed him the letter which he read with interest, while she scratched Beelzebub behind his ear. The cat, who had been sleeping peacefully beside the fire, yawned, stretched and made for the door in search of Mrs Harper and his next meal.

  “What an extraordinary coincidence,” said Bernard, handing the letter back to Anbolin. He explained about Mrs Drake’s visit just two days ago. It seemed fate had determined he become involved with this Alice Troy business one way or another. “You must go and investigate, Annie,” he said.

  “I certainly must,” she said. “But I don’t know what I’ll find. My powers are not as good as they were, as you know. But I can’t ignore this letter, can I? A man’s life is in the balance.”

  “That’s right. A man’s life.” Bernard was thoughtful for a moment, then he said with determination, “I’m coming with you.”

  18th March 1957: Scarborough

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “None of your business!”

  May Stubbs slumped down on the bed beside Alice in the room they shared. “Can I switch on the light?”

  “S’pose so,” said Alice, sitting up and yawning. “I was getting worried. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning.”

  “You’re not my mother,” sniffed May. She pulled off her shoes and started to unhook her stockings.

  “Just wondered, that’s all.”

  “Anyway, I thought you’d be with your beloved ‘Howie’,” said May, not without a note of sarcasm in her voice. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d even notice I wasn’t here.”

  “Oh, I didn’t feel like seeing him tonight. I was tired when we finished up and I thought you were to. When I came to look for you, you’d disappeared. Where’d you go?”

  “I went for a ride on Danny’s motorbike, if you must know.” She slipped into the bed, still in her underslip and bra, too tired to remove them.

  Alice was immediately jealous. “He must be keen on you, then?” she said, disbelievingly. She had seen Danny that afternoon for the first time and had been amazed at how good-looking he was. May hadn’t exaggerated at all. She had tried catching his eye, but he didn’t seem to notice her as he swept the main corridor leading to the banqueting room.

  “Seems to be,” said May. “But you’ve got Howard, so we’re both all right, eh?”r />
  Alice didn’t reply. She remembered with embarrassment how Howard Drake had cut her dead after the cocktail party that evening. She had hoped to intercept him before he went in to dinner to see if he was available later. After all, they had a good time the night before, hadn’t they? And they were all leaving tomorrow. But he had blanked her, as if he had never seen her before.

  “Did you speak to Mr Drake tonight?” she asked after a moment. “I thought I saw him say something to you when you handed him a drink.”

  “Speak to him? No, I don’t think so. Oh yes, come to think of it, I did,” said May. “He asked me if I was a friend of yours, had I known you for a long time.”

  “Really? Why on Earth did he ask you that?” Alice was very upset now. What was he up to?

  “No idea. I told him we were workmates and attended these functions together. He seemed satisfied with that.”

  “And that was all?”

  “Yep. That was all. And now I’m switching out the light. We’ve got an early start in the morning. Thank God it’s the last day, as I’m dead on my feet. At least we should be able to get away early tomorrow.” She yawned again and lay back on her pillow. She was asleep almost immediately.

  Alice, on the other hand, remained wide awake for most of the night. She was puzzled and deeply hurt. Howard Drake had obviously thought better of his one-night stand and hoped she wasn’t going to make any fuss. As if she would, she thought indignantly. It was his loss. But there was no need to be rude and ignore her completely. And then there was daft old May, she’d always thought of her as the one the boys only dated when there was no one more attractive available. But she seemed to have made a hit with local boy Danny, even though she hadn’t let him have his wicked way with her. Or so she said. Maybe he saw her as a challenge. Why hadn’t he taken any notice when she put herself in his path yesterday afternoon? She began to cry silently.

  ***